Artemis had spent-wasted, a majority of her youth; cloaked underneath a heavy veil of sadness. Holding an expression of deprecatory worry: a forever noble cause--wings clipped by a childhood bleeding with corruption. Her young adulthood was filled with helpless searching for resolve in the worlds problems; woefully picking up the thousands of shards and glass slivers from her heart each morning. Life was drowning in self-doubt--Artemis’s plucked liver felt a bit more whimsical with a Golden bay in the background.

Artemis had dreams of running as a child, a free-spirited left in awe: marveling at the crowds she had once seen yelling “Pree...Preee”. Artemis would note the wondrous hyper-focus of the man with a mop for hair: fashioned in bright green and neon yellow shorts. He would later die in a collision that shook Mt. Olympus itself--during the height of his career making a comeback and returning home to the panathenaic. His life story--becoming one of the most classic moving stills, as it stared a boy that flew Thirty Seconds to Mars. Artemis would enjoy achievements of mediocrity in classical acting: content in the paid hobby of low-commitment, and the art of hiding in plain sight. The extra responsibilities came with a tireless junction--Artemis didn’t see the value in investing into a dying industry to provide equal-payouts; walking away from thespian agencies--to utilize academic certificates...stating specialized studies and research projects; highlighting an environment sciences background.

She would later understand why the Argonauts had kept calling her “wee, or cheeky” on the occasion, but overall: Artemis understood that her appearance was mildly pleasing to look at--her smile was without a trace of machinations. Often told by men and or, casting director(s): her appearance wasn’t overwhelmingly beautiful, as though she could only be seen as someone’s neighbor (whatever that means…on the fake scale of aesthetics that people tended to go by). Left wondering--why she had decided to appear so ambiguous each day, when it hadn’t gotten her very far. The need to entertain; could be painted in a single scene; of a small Artemis--singing to an audience of two: demanding that the world hear her songs--unconfused in confidence of an audience that barely warmed up to her voice...set out to entertain themselves from a mundane childhood; marred by the constant passive aggressive abuses occurring in the background.

Artemis prided herself on efforts in sincerity, no matter how much the cost of the opinions of whatever panel of judges were present--the eye on the prize being a Ph.D to accessorize her name. A career at the Blue Shield of Hope had often boosted the stages of enthusiasm for scientific paths; holding a steady stride and a doomed fate unfolding before the world--there had been a handful of con-filled monsters...pirating a bay with claims of false-hopes and bypassing the scientific methods in motion...making up procedures as they went; believing the results would catch up to their venom-soaked words...shrill promises kept by teams of intellects that scrambled behind unhinged leadership; suffering the ultimate professional consequences, for hold stocks in the legitimacy of the enforced procedures used in the unregulated. There was no sowed fields of silicon to report such oversight--standards of safety were ignored, for the sake of credibility judgements based on the personal affiliation between the elders of yesteryear, and those with a wealthy-enough background.

One day--when consulting the Golden Fleece: she noted a woman who held a peculiar stature, and categorized that the lore of such a dagger-eyed Siren could be observed as half-true--when observing the eye-movements of those attempting to cast spells of the soul. Artemis had only known of one other Siren that lived in the open named Martha: she was imprisoned for conspiring to commit tax-fraud--her IP was rotten to its core, and claimed naivety could only be cashed in at face value. A slight-of-hand was seen for what is was; whereas this Siren was backed into a glass-lined corner...unable to deliver what was needed to comply with medical regulations, as well as provide a compact machine that was readily accessible, but conveniently tucked away in the background.

Female Sirens were drawn to the fog-laced bay; for whatever reason. Artemis’s childhood was surrounded by women such as a famous auntie--holding down laughter and comedy to the whole West Coast: her fame and fortune came from managing a house with maximum capacity, and paying the way for success for two daughters by plastering their faces over the body of real athletes. Artemis had taken up the task of wandering upon such hills--childishly enjoying the silliness of sitting lopsided, on an otherwise overpriced hill. The actress was famous for her large hair; insincere communications that seemed a bit peckish: her eyes often flitting aboot, a slender body--birdlike and frail. Artemis had forgotten about the famed monster, disguised as a friendly and wise aunt: until stumbling upon a second Siren later on. The blurred reaches of knowing what to look for--had enhanced personality types that had otherwise been chilling in the background.

The science-driven Siren: was equally odd with her sharpened movements--the hunched posture of a vulture gave the future Queen Camila a run for her monies. The pale-eyed Siren was mesmerizing to older men in specific, as they fell entranced by a determined gaze and the seriousness of a hollow voice. The dangers of age: being taught through politics, and used to punish all those without the title lobbyist--an enticing glass ceiling to someone like Elizabeth; or an impenetrable surface--polished upon marble tiles to someone like Artemis, for all those condemned by melanin. Men found strong-headed women to be burdensome--whereas, others stumbled in upon sheer luck; ranting about their intent to move fast and break everything in sight--if only to fill the blind ambitions of getting in front of the future; offering positions to those with visual representation pulling-up the average of those surrounding a board of shadowed figures; and then there was Elizabeth--sitting pretty and wide-eyed and aloof in the background.

It fascinated Artemis to no end — knowing what the Siren had done for over a decade; the billions of pounds had been invested into a magical box that no one had seen--the concept of magic...gave birth to a device that scammed the citizens--wrung them dry, holding a vile of blood upon strings--to decorate the glass nest that remained the headquarters for a Siren needing specific requirements to reach the tipped point of success; to ring in the Golden age of medicine--complete with entrancing fog along a bay: famed for its red bridge holding down its fascinating history of innovation in the background.

Artemis wasn’t sure how she had overlooked the Siren for so long-the collision of sciences had spared them both an unwelcoming stand-off in work ethics. Artemis was forever the scientist; bound by agreements of nondisclosure on the sidelines of rooms; and the slightly older Siren--was the type of female; to dawn pristine robes of a scientist along with an iron mask and a broken beak: announcing her savior complex, and indicated the end was rapidly approaching--offering self-aggrandize celebrations and moving between tones of pleasantness and condescending snark; shielding all things unpleasant with excuses of proprietary exclusions. Spooky implications of negligence--were masked by ominous whispers and simulated tasks; hanging the glass tubes of robbed blood along frail beams--transpiring the world into chaos with a handful of strangers running amok in the background.

The steady trends of failing leadership had been an untapped mine of potential--allowing a vexing Siren to make fortunes untold: conjured success from thin air, tossing out buzzing words and offering a return on their investments by the end of the day. The empty lies bricked themselves up, and the strange woman had taken it upon herself--to sit upon a nest of fortune and do less; using the mattress of wealth to fuck her lover...filled with sun and critical advice pecking away in the background.

The citizens had drank the green kool-aid: without second thoughts, as to where science stood realistically--the assumption of checks and balances had tipped a delicate system. Hallways and walls had been painted with a lime’d green--the Sirens crest and mission statement plastered everywhere. The future had arrived--at the declaration of Elizabeth. Artemis stood in adjacent laboratories; debating with engineer-filled cohorts, as to whether the promise of success had been worth billions of pounds up-front, when the scientific theory required immense steps and stipulations to be published as legitimate--complete with public review and an academic background.

Artemis studied the depths in which men wanted to believe that the blonde woman would hold the title of a cover girl to their buttoned up lives. Prominence and the art of looking the part--had brought the citizens to the door steps of her madness. The flustered Siren seemed to expect a lot in donations; forever unpleased at the lack of admiration from her bipartisan counterparts in attendance...often slumping away when harder-hitting questions came knocking, or sulking back to retreat to saying less in the background.

Artemis remained tied to a specific timeline--observing the con of the Siren with amusement. There was not a single drop of shamelessness from her mouth when holding conference in the throngs of bored men; boasting of her accomplishments and rouging emotional feathers. The tides of expectations had yet to change; it remained rude and immature, for Artemis to laugh at the expense of the Siren and her eccentric ways when attempting to collapse the spells binding engineers to their need to be right. She was forever alone upon an island of thought--stranded and biding time for the world to place their bets of stabilized systems, tangible results, and admittance that the world needed more educated citizens with a scientific background.

The concept of faking it until you make it--had gotten them nowhere in life. Now they were all held captive to a staged interview; staring down upon a monster hiding behind a famed black cloth and its mocking neck. One of the most famous pieces of cloth known to man--it’s unbridled expectations suggested power and unattested glory, had been weaponized for the sake of impersonation. It would be this cloth--that forced Artemis to remember a friendly leader; sickened by ego and time. Artemis had known him for prominence in an untapped mine of potential, and the mistreatment of those working beneath him but was unsure of his occupation.

Artemis had paid attention for fun as a child--as a symptom of being beaten into the present moment. She’d find herself at night: re-living the same day in tireless dreams, as a silent Papa Jim often walked in the forest and asked a child about strategies to defeat a Mechanical Boar. Once safe in the forest, they met with the man--called Hephaestus in his black cloak...greeting him as though they were old combat friends, folded into the fabric of time. Artemis knew there had to be some sort of catch, as her early initiation into their exclusive “boys club” at such a young age was highly suspicious--since she had been touted a pathetic life up until that point in life; standing in silence, afraid of the consequences of messing up in the background.

The aging man named Papa Jim was notorious for being an asshole...giving her more questions than answers; walking ahead of her and then complaining that she was left behind. He lamented an elaborate proposal to Artemis: in which she would be able to change her curse of bad luck, as well as achieve vast riches in the process by playing a childish game. He had foregone her opinion, and offered her calculative services to Hephaestus to do with as he pleased. Informing Artemis--that she had been hand-selected by Hephaestus: to hold, protect and battle with a pearl encrusted shield he had crafted just for her. A game was built to manifest into multi-dimensions; by reacting to the decisions and intent of others--while Artemis held the anchor to reality by crawling along through life in the background.

Hephaestus had been assigned to craft a fine shield: lined with gold and silicone, and her ability to wield the shield with ease was inspirational to the man--the strange skills of being decent at a lot of little things; forever on-path with being shy of extraordinary, and left to fend for the less-glamorous parts of life...had made Artemis to be a worthy contender in a race through Atalanta. She was forever stuck in a darkened city; attempting to make something from nothing--to paint a life worth caring for golden, and needing a hidden skill to run scans over emotional operations in her minds background.

Their functioning as people in the colorful staged play of life: pertinent to uphold the operations of all other heavenly inventions. Artemis held no fruition, on what that could possibly mean at the time, but she remembered thinking that didn’t sound like a very efficient machine: if it relied on the “lack-of” human error to be the unit of measurement...in which all of the other shields processed their magic from, as a central power-source. To be the moon casting a shadow--for a moments rest from the harmful rays of the sun...was a pressure in performance that no sane mortal could handle. Her intrigue on the matter had been sparked by the participation in this promise--the process of holding up a net in the sky; to be the entity of sane calmness ringing in the night with a comforting glow--to offer respite on the shores of delusional grandeur. Despite being a child: Artemis somehow had collected that this opportunity: to show a family ruled by tyrants--that her exceptionalism superseded their culminated worth for once and for all the times. Grinning at the concept of the world having to follow suit: admitting Artemis belonged in the front of the world as born leader--instead of starving in silence in the tension-filled scene...forced to diminish herself to the background.

She agreed with an egregious tone: there was a self-taught confidence that would glow brightly at rare moments. Words like unwinnable and difficult meant nothing--when living a childhood where adults made malicious jokes about orphans and cashed tax-funded support; snickering as they stood in rooms of bets and aggressive lights and knowing that three children were left locked in a home unattended-enslaved to cleaning and pretending to be as invisible as possible in the pathetic background.

They carried on with their low-income life--her voice became strong, as the winds of change whisked the sounds of soft beeping and churning of gears to add a layer of thin-tissued Ozone; to protect the soil and air. Papa Jim had passed soon after; leaving behind a widow in which the world could judge its axis and realign its moral compass next to. Life had been one uphill battle after another for Artemis--an empty box of dreams and ambitions had more foundational start-up promise than the entirety of a glass nest being held up by an entitled Siren; and yet, life continued to build up an unfair hand--as women like Artemis were asked to stand aside and simply watch the chaos unfold in the background.

Artemis hadn’t thought about those days--confounded to a house and its haunted hallway in the last decade, as she often told herself it were a story undocumented and therefore lacked in proof. The memories she called daydreams--second best to an irresponsible talent-wielding at the behest of external beauty; a neglected sibling in the hatched mischief of a single mother...forever failing at holding defensive lines of vulnerability. The lowest of expectations--barred Artemis for reaching for salaried thrones; complete with a love loft and unlimited green juices. There was a veil of darkness; chained to eras of vanity and nostalgic projections of a gleaming age...complete with Artemis--heckling a defrauding Siren, holding a baritone voice and tossing tomatoes upon a stage: agreeableness to a non-reality kept Artemis awake, prepared and sharp. She remained intertwined by invisible circles and pools of information...a massive lie holding a small army hostage--to a shared vision...turned hostile situations, masked as professional occupation.

Artemis was a Siren, committed to pleasing others: devoted to the withstanding health and looming potential...clipped by the professionals that be. Personality characteristics checked in routine: self-harm being of less meaning than the worries of imposing harm upon others. A sensation of wrongness or unsettled silence was a tool of distractions for those like Elizabeth--claiming a higher accuracy in achieving all the things, at all waking hours....other Sirens took the heel of such brigades--tying one to the other, and introducing an infamous mistress. Artemis had taken up the task of bounty--holding the statement "Ducunt volentem feta, nolentem trahunt" near and dear to her heart. It was the duty of a fate to drag the unwilling to their day in court; or the to the courts of public opinion at the very least. Tying off a curse--meant to unbury the definition of miserable with a single question; to unearth the depths of negligence with an innocuous joke about a fish. Complete with musical numbers. The birth of nightmares springing into life--could be displayed by a variance of personalities; built upon the straw-lining of minor differences, and prominent patterns--proceeding circumstances and lies overflowed from the limits of Hades until they spilled over into the today. A handful of women; could act as crowned leaders in their field of study--to extend an array of outcomes; carving very distinct paths upon their quests to shine in their dream occupation.

Elizabeth coveted her lies, ego-driven and short-sided; the culminated admiration that came with the burden of shouldering responsibility upon others--had procured vast wealth and was unable to deliver on the talent; bound by regulation; preoccupied by the blind bets of aging mortals. The loose hinges of bendable laws and authority kept Sirens selling empty promises to run loose--to offer destruction to entire communities; unchecked and unmedicated. The eventual evolution of the trauma informed came to back Artemis as she prepared for an undiscovered battlefield each day--holding up sobriety built upon glass bridges, and an overlapping sense of time. A patient tick of a clock-reminding the world of her predisposition for self-poisoning laying between the harsh words ink’d in black-and-white; the least marketable part of Artemis laying in the moments of silence that stood in the near background.

Artemis had dawned a white hat of redemption: sitting upon a saddle and holding direct aim at a moving target--her emotional state transparent, but a sense of intimidation in size falling into realistic frame whenever the petite rider dismounted a broad-shouldered animal. The sterilized nature of the world came from a Siren; famed for her idea to invest into an Arc of miracles and a vision, a mistress horsed-man; coveting a glass home that belonged to another and two oil tanks. Her world was ugly: grayish and awful at times. It was so lonely...to be a hard-working individual--held to higher standards on a whim, for the belief of encouraging likability factors to replicate and reproduce with earned practice. The dead-ended conversations meant to encourage diversity to exist elsewhere, without the held accountability of unfair biases. Nothing could shake the gaggle of men awake. Artemis prodded and poked at the old men: labeling themselves as the key investors of the future...born right in time to cash out their investments. It bewildered her to no end...straight up baffled Artemis--that the Siren had built a massive glass nest with surreal ideas standing as outliers to reality. The empty box was valued at its worth; driven into the auctioning eyes of the public, and showcasing the disinterest of the messengers risking life and limb to provide due diligence to an assesment of feasability--delivering the news caused pain and panic for the professional journalists that put it all on line; to procure the truth for the greater goods of mankind as they lead the charge with a high-risk occupation.

Artemis had stumbled upon the exact location of the nest protected by the Siren by accident: the clumsy skills in being indigenously lost often landed her upon knotted paths--overlapping or gliding past strangers on a mission; unaware of their intent in the world. Artemis had observed the birdlike woman intensively...it seemed rude to face such over-hyped presence with forbearance. The cosmic lucks that be, had kept two planet-sized personalities to be outside of each others orbit by way of entitlements-sake. One woman took everyone’s time for granted; whereas, Artemis prized a hard-earned occupation.

The lines of separate standards in female Sirens could be determined by the demand for flowers. A woman holding a male-like voice and black robe would require more accolades--bouquets of rolled notes to satisfy a greed around the physical showcases of admiration. A woman holding the proud title of mistress, and a shredded wedding dress would require more emotional reassurance than all three women combined; to provide value to pending ultimatums--the cheapening of love measured by golden portraits, because a childish female wants to appear low maintenance on some fronts, and deadly on others. The two women were corrupted by love, falling ill to self-inflicted wounds--forced to lose everything; including their dream occupation.

Artemis was the kind of Siren to require long-standing loyalty in flowers; holding a line of literary defense by way of a single tree throwing up delicate seasonal blossoms--flanking a left leaning attack with two trees, and an army of stringed instruments; holding a silver sword and a glass of poison would require flowers in pending--the risks of an avoidable disease were to be rooted as an award worth fighting for. Blushed cheeks and a need for self-improvement were the most selfish between three types of personalities; centered around their encounters with love. The dignified existence of a woman free from men and their slutty ways; comfortable with self-affacing love; forever able to receive flowers from whomever without guilt--unable to care about men longer than two years at a time; unwilling to lock-in on such soul-sucking emotional applications. Artemis’s spare efforts were stored away for those willing to listen; when words may fall upon ears--ready to hear such self-caring filled conversations. A finish-line of victory was forever moving out of range for three women--cursed with a plucked brain, plucked heart, and plucked liver; each holding down a bay of reasoning--casting endless nets and causing men to crash along the shores of staged lives; coddling injured egos and attempting to break free from the oppression of the Patriarchy that churned away in the background.

Artemis snuck inside the glass nested lair: looking frantically around, seeking the mythical device of Hephaestus and losing her footing with reality in the process--she was trapped in a sliver of time that was defined by the depths of failure; shading a world with black and white expectations. The sensation of feeling unwelcome in her own life--kept Artemis returning to sterilized labs and a yesteryear, where seizures and hunched shoulders were unfamiliar to the mission statement repeated by others. The option of success had given Artemis a life; circling a metal nest--to hold fiery debate about safety and probabilities of disaster while pointing directly at a bay; stripped of its parts and sold off to pay outstanding bills. Pragmatic problem solving and self-preservation became the more tedious parts in understanding the noble downfall of a once-prized occupation.

The idea of misplaced funds and privatized studies--spared from regulation and oversight; had built the glass nest straw by straw. The weight of a thin Siren holding the largest threat to collapsing a glass roof in at any moment. Artemis took steps in defusing jealousy in resources; by deciding it was an appropriate time to destroy some random shit instead--breaking and entering into a lab, unapologetic to the crew lacking in the talent to hold up its mission statement. Elizabeth’s vision of the future was dead upon arrival. The nest stood empty and abandoned, dreary with the lingering smell of failure--a hint of decay followed anyone that dared set foot in a glass nest; a just sentence for the dangerous and harmful occupation.

Artemis held her head high: dancing upon tip-toes and flicking thin wrists along the halls of glass nest: hearing passionate music, that only she could feel. Pleasurable destruction resulted in fits of laughter; the haunted hallway that kept rooms and memories compartmentalized--had sprung all doors to burst open at once; conducted by the silent gestures of Artemis prancing from here-to-there like a madman with equally unkempt hair. A sense of seriousness could be drafted by the time-suck solution of painting out portraits of helpless lose-lose scenarios by hand...considering Artemis had no tangible proof of a books monetization future-earning potential. It had been a selfish streak of brilliance that led Artemis to turn a life of pitied intrigue into something--where a physical book would forever be tied to her intellectual background.

Nobody had told Artemis to try her best...the self-efficacy was born into the cold veins of an orphan...she was made for the moment. The exonerating of others shitty choices--often triggered bouts of aggression into Artemis: accessorized by a silver sword and a colorful hammer and somethin to say. There was a streak of defiance that lay in the priorities of the less lazy individual--the appreciation of running one’s own errands and selecting things piece-by-piece: curated to build a home. Artemis was a public Siren...bound by hobbies of treasure, and self-harm...crafting a meticulous life; complete with a warm glow. The flitting of paycheck-to-paycheck left her ambitions to hold themselves at the bays of reality; where fog-peaked mornings were without sales-taxes and were a harbor to athletic innovation. She stood as an enigma to the expected greatness that the world had taken for granted; holding a defeated head and dragging along a leather sphere. Artemis’s body wasn’t agreeable to the far-sided ambitions of holding a pointed-position; walking between lecture halls and wood courts as an honorable occupation.

It was without harm that a chagrined Artemis wandered around obliterating property as she saw fit: informing the blank-staring Siren--that she had been just stopping by in the hypothetical hood...ready to observe a miracle. Artemis returned to her thuggish ways with the slight flicker of a smile: breaking anything and everything in sight. The messy parts were particularly delightful--specifically the clattering and bouncing of small vials containing blood hitting the nest floor with soft tink, a chamber emptied. Only the one casualty had been enough for the world to care more; to tip the scales of reason...to nudge a Siren into reality with the soft snip-snop of snapped fingers. Artemis had chosen this timeline to exist; to witness the rain of a shattering glass nest in a blurry and deeply sanitized background.

When tumbling through dreams; she stumbled upon a nightmare. Artemis heard a soft voice clear its throat suddenly, and turned slowly: catching herself facing a very handsome young man. He stood in the doorway: holding his warm bean juice and adjusting a bloody bandage that wrapped around the crown of a profusely wounded head. He seemed unfazed by the mass destruction--able to skirt around gated blades of grass: the nest had rebuilt itself to be a throne of the past. Artemis came to the glass nest to coddle wounds of ego; failing to uphold a long-standing contract as a Government-funded scientist--the collateral damage to a Mechanical Boar that didn’t believe in the necessity of such a Debby-downer occupation.

The fun had stopped at the door of such nightmare: those reaching their wits end could enter and exit at any time--sans live with the guilt of abandonment in rooms lacking sensibility. The sands of time had placed them to be two slivers of time--orbiting through similar crowds; dragging their feet in defeat whilst knowing tomorrow deserved better than the offerings of today. Artemis was famed for her catastrophic rage--complimented by swellings of music; painting with all the mother fucking colors of the wind, at the behest of gentle wrists tossing and turning. He had been silently standing there: for an unknown amount of time...watching as the petite woman had managed to infiltrate such a secure glass fortress undetected--eating snacks and holding a guarding post and awaiting a man famed for his Sun-filled ways to sleep in restless dreams; needing to better gauge a situation tipping to its point of implosion. Artemis wondered why he hadn’t alerted the authorities or attempted to stop her casually rummaging through cabinets of papers: silent amusement awarded to a stranger while he searched for validation in the process of scientific theory. The man was free to witness Artemis on a stealthy mission, borrowing a crescendo of harsh rampage as an organic human-tornado in the background.

Artemis turned to glance over a rolling shoulder: finally acknowledging the slender young man--smiling at her for no reason, as weapons fell lax in a moment of abruptness. He stood in the corner sipping from his porcelain cup: moderately amused...void of any expression that’d indicate concerns aboot the irreparable damage she presented with an awkward head-nod and a heavy footed bow. He seemed relieved in a sense: glad that she had destroyed his property--shattering glass and openly questioning his lore-laced occupation.

It made Artemis feel at ease a bit; their shared reality was stupid in its essence. The need to base reality into a story; to seek a larger picture of understanding--notwithstanding to the suggestion of surviving a universe uncomprehendingly ridiculous in its threaded fringes--exhausting to embrace at all times. The tail-spinning of disappointment left Artemis sheepishly alert to the entirety of the situation: unable to take pride in her art (destruction-wise). She wasn’t used to dead-eyed savages waiting for her to speak first--having been raised to be a lady...assimilated to upper-middle class pale-people standards: her brownness an indicator of subhuman statuses of time repeating itself, taught to listen first and speak second--forced to take refuge in the background.

Artemis pretended to tidy up her life for a split second, as she walked steadily towards the man. She was a fan of his work ethic; gleefully holding out her hand, ready to shake and acknowledge his generosity in letting her finish a tantrum-filled scene. Artemis was taken aback by the observation that his handshake was performed with sincerity, but her grip was substantially stronger than his--the logic-driven grandson was famous for his brevity, and yet his hand held timidity...something was deeply wrong with such a picture. The free-flowing blood from his wound implicated the state of stress and the threats to his life; preaching the importance of living within the limits of reality--clenching to an empty box that held the copious promises of his undervalued, and dumbfoundingly underpaid occupation.

He juggled the box upon a weary forearm to shake hands; despite high-setting counters standing like islands all around them. Artemis had friendly way of leaning in and dapping up people in moments of excitement; familiarity being a great tool in memorable introductions. He looked down at her hand and glanced into her eyes with concern to her firm understanding of self--she had met a hero and braced for the impact by piping loudly "whatsup Sir?!". Artemis could tell...that his father, or grandfather had never called him “Sir” with respect: his handshake weakened without their necessary blessings and teachings--the state of despair came from the manner in which corruption and fraud had poisoned a once respected occupation.

The pair talked and walked in circles--the man claiming a massive invention to be broken, and Artemis pointing out it wasn’t a thing. The lack of urgency to fix something that didn’t exist kept them hostage to a shared nightmare; where Artemis was forced to listen to passerby engineers-holding praise for a con artist; to load ones stones--to play the press, to play the regulators with a lulling lecture or two. Affiliation of unearned titles showered the Siren in a storm of gold while Artemis scrambled to preserve rudimentary sciences through deeply vetted channels--clawing for grants and scholarship opportunities, shameless and somehow bloodthirsty for fair competition. The worst part of holding the title of a scientist, was the expectations to understand and communicate with engineers--to work as the emotional liaison between busy figureheads and the common man with too much time on their hands. The soils of encouragement would break away at unexpected times; predictable enough, when placing it on a scale swaying between red and blue. There seemed to be less loopholes and exception to the rules-of-law in Artemis’s world; cursing her to hold loud volumes at unpredictable moments--eventually left speechless; playing only herself...burdened by the most common of debt--and the loss of a high-risk bet when aiming one’s future endeavors to be intertwined with a more personalized occupation.

The two tortured scientist were similar outside of the fact that Artemis understood the depth of real world consequences and had never been forced into the souring presence of an unpleasing Siren. Both women could change the world in a black mocking neck; drawing uncanny comparisons to the many straw-like characteristics of a protege--both enjoying freshly pressed juices and white lab coats. That’s where the similarities began and ended. Artemis held an aura of uniqueness, and Elizabeth held and aura of trend. The stray chances of Tyler mistaking them in a passing dream began to forge a path of authenticity; where he took on the painstaking labor of seeking an answer--bumping into a random woman with blonde hair; dredging up a fog-rolled forest while forced to lug around a box...bleeding at its seams. He pleaded for a moment free from holding the empty invention; a second of shared labor to provide secondary opinion to help reconfigure the inner-workings and offer skinny forearms a break. The mix-up of two identities and the rarity of a slight-of-hand: that Artemis just happened to specialize in such a complicated, yet legitimate occupation.

Artemis had wanted to find the silver lining to such a heaping mess of timeline; noticing his need to vent about a professional culture of dishonesty--she was unfamiliar to such contagions of cheating, having always been an outsider. The commonality of leadership skills had stitched a halo effect shared with the famed Siren; both crowned for surviving adversity. Artemis asked the man for a glass of water; along for the ride with his heuristics and a formal tour of the empty glass nest made up of sliver-tongued curses; decorated with delicate shards of the truth. She found him refreshing and noble in his many, many grievances--their shared belief in a system meant to protect those blowing whistled truths into the abyss of information protections; gave them both pride in agency...to take the proper steps needed when paving a more safe and inclusive occupation.

He began to express the endless engineering woes hindering sleep to a new friend--pointing to gears and cogs that steamed along; griping about keeping revenues inflated as an added layer of intricate worries. Artemis was distracted by the fact that he ignored the copious amounts of blood--steadily trickled down the side of his forehead, too busy mistaking Artemis for a stranger that supposedly emulated greatness. He expressed excitement in having scientific company in otherwise closed--corridors: the gates of propriety information held them apart throughout the day. The man was unable to sleep in his dreams; seeking high resolution, or even just another friendly face...tortured by the unsolvable issues assigned by a thankless and sketchy occupation.

The tired engineer had ran out of ways to “fix” the famed invention now known as the Arc; complete with a sham laboratory--designed to shift the perception of reality: Joe’s reality. The stage had been set, the Siren had already begun parades and an elaborate campaign for boosting the device to move to a commercialized production line. Artemis was incapable of cashing in on such outlying beauty premiums--the corroborating evidence of a hard life, causing a striking face and watching eyes. The silent judgement of patient listening would unravel women such as Liz. There would be a strange lingering silence, because Artemis was a poet of words--providing context for genuine chaos with abstract metaphors instead of less concrete wording. In a test of Shredding; Artemis would always offer award herself two less points than what was scored and lost--taking vast comfort in being "less correct", if it meant avoiding an undo spotlight. She found nothing wrong with doing less and standing in the background.

The Siren laughed and stared into the souls of the citizens without blinking, words failing in their legitimacy the more time passed. Artemis took an analysis of the heavy Arc that the Siren had forced others to carry around for her: hoisted high upon their shoulders as they toddled behind a woman dancing awkwardly and claiming to own all the power. The captured event: showing the Siren’s true personality...notably taking extreme efforts--to always stand a golden staffs-length away from those working beneath talons pressing upon their necks--seclusion had tipped the scales of reasonable cause. The compiled lies and threats held little weight to Artemis’s one poem...since the scale of lying was diminished when surviving with less. Endless inspiration lit a trail of destiny; providing overview on a separate world--where Artemis had needed separate data and themes surrounding a great hunt, and her pre-deified background.

Artemis thought about this as she quietly critiqued the broken device sitting on a nearby table. It seemed rude to correct Tyler about the identification mix-up this late in the game. The engineer asked for her opinion on democratizing medical services, and seemed weary as to her true character began working its way through his illusion; the ringing of falsity...came when Artemis expressed a passion in the firm beliefs that a government should respond and react to the concerns of the citizens, as a priority and not an afterthought. She fell out of character of a woman famed for her obsession with being picked--rejoining a plane of moral high ground by way of compassion; unable to repackage the portrayal of a snobby range of wealth. Artemis began slapping the side of the broken carved box--tinkering with an overworked elbow joint and mumbling as to why it refused to work properly. She smiled at last...stating that there was nothing for her to analyze or fix... since personal errors were crucial in maintaining the controls of the scientific process. Pointing at the heap of chords and lights: laughing that it wasn’t even broken...since the machine: technically didn’t even exist enough to call itself an Arc of information. Mechanical arms and pipettes already existed outside of his bloody case: there was no secret innovation to protect with one’s life, there was only Elizabeth...with her unmatched skills in pathological lying and the direct causation of wrath that came with anyone that stood between a misguided mission statement and her prized occupation.

Artemis observed the schematics of the Arc, circling and prodding at a dull-colored interface: snickering in disbelief to the rushed state of the project. The sloppy parameters had been set by the Siren herself, and the state of the project was left looking like it had been crafted by children. The shallow bird: prioritizing aesthetics and diverting the project from the potential of its functionality. The world needed medicine to work at a steady pace, not at one where the wait time of new inventions was past its roll-out projections. The young man silently smiled nearby: proud that he had finally thought to ask a scientist for a second opinion, for peace of mind and a single moment of solitude. He mentioned a worry of an upcoming trial: informing his grandfather of the failure of rushed innovation....Artemis glared off in confusion; unsure as to what that had to do with the issues in his current overly engineered occupation.

The Siren had conned the citizens: to provide their own blood as a sacrifice to her Arc--burrowing behind false claims and a few pop-up nests in stores of convenience. The dormant machine being nothing more that a prop that projected false hope--the whispers of sweet nothings that came before a stranger drew the standard amounts of blood to extract results from...in a secret lab--left blind to the proprietary tests that were being resold as extraordinary, by an untrustworthy chief of executive decisions...too busy arguing with her petite lover to follow-up on a hand-cultivated occupation.

Artemis finally looking around at the entirety of the situation: wondering how the Siren had even managed to hold up such a large nest of glass lies for so long--it was a feat of spectacular measures for one to drink their own venoms. There was no need to disarm or dismantle an already cracking system; so Artemis retreated to a life of hardship and waited for time to catch up to her. The jagged edges of truth would be the eventual sword for the lying Siren to fall upon--when all that was left was a lone entrepreneur; unable to peddle wish-filled spells or hide behind the titles and occupation.

The young engineer thanked her for providing him free services in checking his numbers and schematics: beaming, as he clutched the reports of her scientific findings. Sometimes Artemis lied: saying shy things like "it’s not a big deal" when that wasn’t the case. The young man had grown exhausted from his massive wound--caused by thunking his skull upon the walls of his dreams for years, and managing to keep stitches reopening each night. Artemis had stepped him off the ledge of insanity by listening and observing with impartial eyes--missing the days where she had aimed for the stars with a well-respected occupation.

The world had gathered around in passing dreams; avoiding a man with injuries inside a mental state of divine nonchalance. He spoke with compassion--presenting Polis after Polis a noble cause without solution, his burden to carry...for believing in sciences and the staked hold on the sermons caused when gouging one’s own eyes out, pleased to present the world with the disruptive path of a bedraggled lovesick leader and her leashed band of anaura. A band of intellectuals were corrupted by a promise; bound by a vision in the statement of Elizabeth having a theory. The lack-of-circumspection had left her wings clipped; torn away from her motherhood--the calculated error or two kept the world at the bays of sympathy. But all Artemis had known: was the death of a colleague, held by the throat of such a famed Siren--thrashing a man’s ego with termination, and immediate rehire; to intimidate compliance into an elder...too afraid to lie under oath on behalf of an otherwise tiresome occupation.

Artemis would return to the mans side time-after-time: forgetting why she had needed to learn of a chemist--recalling a debt-of-silence being owed to those able to find refuge in nightmares on the regular. Grief slapped Tyler awake: held hostage to the corruption of cause, until Artemis asked about his feelings on matter. Someone had to apologize to those that knew of such a likable and empaneled soul as Gibbons--because Liz wasn’t going to. Artemis held tight to a fire of petty expertise; crowned with the domain title of editor-in-chief--set to defend a jury of the public with a story of self-improvement, to take profit and glory from a panoply of shit poems; through invested beliefs of building the foundations of a structurally sound and fairly-respected occupation.

Tyler and PhD Gibbons had been cursed by the Siren--eyes gouged out at will, scabbed at the edges of drying sockets. The state of true fear; had come at the cost of reality not fitting in with reality. Silence had willed Tyler’s spirit to return a cursed box; his failures in achieving the impossible were rewarded with the gentle whispers of Elizabeth hissing in his ear....asking for him to get it done; holding the silent implications of threat while scanning the surroundings for a forever scorned lover--the messiest of no-no’s transcended the limits of the mind--the added layer of nonsense when mixing pleasure with occupation.

Artemis had laughed time and time again: listening to the tea of others sin-laced cups. There were plenty of nights where Artemis had attempted to intervene with the man’s curses of forcefully banging his head at the hour--minus tea time. Waking up to the blinking moments before being head- butted while attempting to stand in the way of a wall and a stranger punishing himself for failures in fixing an Arc. The frantic break always resulted in Artemis giving the impressions of being a morning person; ready for whatever. A deep chime of clock and a tinkering of ivory--kept Artemis falling through time; forced to listen to engineers brag about a woman with a theory, and then using her nights to deal with the true victims--the hopeless individuals sickened by their own entrepreneurial spirits and the bad bets placed on a facade occupation.

Artemis wished she could break through the static vile of Elizabeth’s delusions...to tell both Tyler and PhD Gibbons with matched urgency that help was on its way. Tyler had a partner in noble crime...bearing a light as an excuse. PhD Gibbons had no one in the nest of deceit. Artemis was livid, as the Siren would intentionally diverted a parade of officials from the second laboratory--holding a sham within a sham; her glass nest filled to its max. Regulations didn’t matter--when wealth was on the line, but the rules remained; undeterred by bulging blue eyes--the bounds of limitation had finally exceeded the concerns for the wealthy...the suckers holding a stake in the game had a voice that boomed louder than any horn were muted by the overwhelming majority. Investors didn’t take lightly to the disrespect of such a slight-of-hand, and a sun-less man no longer steered the fraudulent ship from time-to-time...he had been sacrificed as an afterthought; ripped from the shadows by his neck...no longer able to sneer and make demands behind the curtains of the production; or yell directives while leering in background.

Artemis had to believe in the greater good; to tuck herself away in the pages of triumph and take ease in a swinging pendulum of justice, or to sleep for eternity...if time could only permit such a feat. Artemis sensed that a battle with this evil Siren rang nearer; because nobody ever stopped talking about it. There was no bay large enough to hold such an ego. Artemis had formed calluses in emotions; touted as less fun than her female engineer counterparts....and now being told to praise whatever magic show some random lady was presenting: by claiming that a theory teller was more important than the actual scientists and engineers combined. Nobody was safe from the talons of such greed...there was no hiding and waiting it out in the background.

Artemis asked the engineer why he had not told the general public of the crimes being committed by the Siren; she was easily disarmed by basic lines of questions and rendered to be without linens in moments of deception. The purpose of a simulation beaded with bright gleaming moments...the bottled singularity divested by way of inequality. They were stranded on a timeline of failures; where participants boosting the tail of a shooting star clamored at the glass doors of a crumbling lab. Life was rendered fairly enough--to measure the afforded forgiveness between an orphan; choosing a path of public service, and an upper middle-class woman--juggling personal beef with a neighbor into courtrooms for no particular reason; telling employees to lie on the stand...to protect the proprietary secrets of an Arc of medical information with their lives. The insatiable greed of one person eventually caused the self-deletion of a respected scientific engineer--forced to press forward with a boulder of guilt; fighting an impossible state of being frozen in despair--unwilling to commit perjury for the sake of a sinking occupation.

Tyler informed Artemis that the glass nest was under constant surveillance during the day: guarded by a man that bore no light and followed around the Siren with lust-filled eyes. The lack-of-acknowledgement of tragedy was something fitting for someone famed for being cold and odd. Artemis questioned the legality of this stout man and his methods in management through intimidation and retaliation. The unregulated fields of intellectual investments had resulted in an untapped gold-mine of youth; prepared to play with leaping frogs--to gamble hedged investments; entangled in a Siren’s vision and a stressful occupation.

They constructed a plan: to expose the stroking of keys and information. The stout sun-less man followed the crumbs and picking up a wobbling pace excitedly: preparing to gift them to his beloved Siren later. “Bitches love bread”...Artemis would narrate her plan, as they watched him scoop his prizes from the ground. The engineer nodding in agreement as they sleuth’d’d. Half-a-decade stretched into forever; manipulated by a sketchy-eyed woman...over-extending professional boundaries--holding peckish arguments with a bossy lover in the background.

Artemis explained that she almost felt sorry for the sun-less shadow: having foolishly touching the arrow of Cupid once before herself. She told the kind man of her curses of self-inflicted sadness, being tethered to the Viking-- despite the fact he seldom thought of her. There had been something wrong with the amount of disrespect given to certain people; and withheld as an impossible standard for others. Artemis wasn’t eager to give up on things...but she also didn’t like the idea of embracing herself on behalf of an unrealistically exhausting romance and or, and underpaying occupation.

The engineer would eventually scold her for the growing excuses she gave on behalf of the Viking--the pages of a wandering odyssey had reoccurring characters for the sake of relatable intrigue; not necessarily for their redeeming qualities. He wondered--how she could perceive the future and inexplicable evils of the world; why stories of larger ranges held such personal investment. A static river of information separated two generations: those bitterer by the time spent without easy access to information--and the younger group that hit the ground running; buckling down and learning advanced computational skills to add onto a future professional occupation.

Artemis held her knees close, as she cried from embarrassment of denial; able to handle rejection but weary from the undeniable mistreatment--allowed from a friendship holding equal investments and having such unfavorable outcomes. The Viking thought out-of-sight...out-of-mind to be his best option, but ultimately: the tied passions for an orange leather sphere and sportsmanship kept them cordial at worst--both guiltily missing the friendship of the other; whenever holding coaching or leadership roles in such a common and profitable occupation.

Artemis asked the engineer to cut the rope: crying for the sake of self-respect, having to give up her the false hopes of ever being seen or admired by an aging Viking. Artemis told him--she no longer wished to pine after a man incapable of loving her in kind, and stated it had been childish: believing in his potential in the first place. Artemis explained that she was indescribably tired of being the butt of every joke: most likely deserving of whatever awful things the Viking had already said without her present. Artemis knew; her heart was too weak to continue and feel all her failures, and believed that cutting the tether were the right thing to do...since the Viking had already made his bed. The kind engineer began apologizing on his behalf, until Artemis interrupted his passivity, halting all excuses for the Viking and his ignorant ways--unjustified by their entertaining qualities providing due-diligence to the claims of a flirtatious background.

They were the puppeteers of her life; the pale purge-filled grins that stood on every corner...this was the ultimate moment of diagnosis: no buzz word lecture needed. Artemis began crying: her life was awful. Being brown had moments of being awful. Both were true at once. It had all been for nothing she thought--they were fucked. Elizabeth had a theory, and her invention didn’t work. Both, were so very true at the same fucking time. It was all the same: there was no reward for those fighting the ailments of health. Artemis remembered suddenly why she came to the nest each night in the first place--worlds began colliding, the tides of female aspirations had turned in her favor. She had heard Tyler: broke past the lucid rigidity of caring too much about the wrong things--holding a Tyler by the shoulders and weeping...they were chained to the ideas of others. The safest route to a better life; lay past a storm of moral chaos. The lessons of a failed romance and a past as a juvenile delinquent had given Artemis a better understanding of what worked; the feasibility of clashing personalities and the joyous moments in existing with someone peacefully or lonely but at peace--to be at smoothest of sailings in the background.

Artemis had outgrown a domestically violent relationship; and walked past the next pending failure. A friendly giant of man betrayed her trust early on in a relationship; after hearing a rumor of a manifested idea to direct and star in a production of an intimate act, and to show it those in close social circles unprompted. The final moments of silence when asking out loud if he had spied on her using the same surveillance found in the East, under the tyrant known as the Chimera. An invasion of privacy was often the way to trigger the event of pulling out the rug from beneath one’s feet--to provide a mild relief when hearing the word no; to brace for the impact of knowing things could sometimes be worse, and taking the hints and trails of advice of other people as the constellation prize when dealing with invasive information--the trail of lies ablazened by those accountable for all the things: on the forward-facing end of the house, and holding up the branches of finances in the background.

All of this had happened, so the world could witness the footprints of one man--holding an unattainable Siren’s feet to a judicial fire--she encouraged him from afar. Artemis technically had no proof in knowing that the doing the right thing occasionally paid-out, and she did firmly believe in the importance of drawing hard-lines between personal life and an over extending occupation.

Artemis had sentenced herself to seclusion: ripping out her hair in despair until the man agreed to break her tethered bonds to the Viking--the life of a scientist was without fair prizes, in love with smoke--afraid of mirrors. The opposite to Elizabeth; probably incurred by less fluffed recognition. The tightening reigns on reality was held at the mercy of a Mechanical Boar and his over zealous crew of minions; minus the one time they were held at the mercy of an orphan. Artemis had forgotten who she was, as the cursed rope had betrothed time to a space in time. Life before the name wife had enough free time to fill an entire book. The boatload of emotions was both overwhelming; and confounding to the spirits true potential. The inability to let something go had kept men to be in the close-yet-unreachable background.

Artemis would still return to the glass nest each night: if only to keep the kind engineer company, as he was still a captive to the Siren: her real worries in being a failed plumber were of no significance to the real monies of the world. One night, Artemis arrived at the nest...to find the engineer without his familiar smile: bound tightly to a large pole that stood center, scaffolding the nest built up of glass shards. Artemis asked where he had put her silver wands--rummaging things nearby urgently: scrambling to figure out what was happening....trying to get up to speed as to why everything was suddenly in flames--the extreme heat melting the glass in the background.

She had met him for the last time: suspended in the worst moment--condemned for wanting to believe in the actions of others. Artemis wept; placing her hands in a fire and burning herself alive to hug a stranger bound and gagged by loyalty--strapped to a pillar aflame on public display. She explained how an elder sister named Athena, once had a half-hearted idea, and someone had died and now Artemis didn’t have an older sibling to love. The void of concern for others had built a customized nook in Hades just for for her and Tyler. Artemis hadn’t put a stop to the episodic bouts of misguided energy--Tyler couldn’t put a hold on a project with meaningless goal posts that moved forever out of reach. The failures of others were an expected burden--when justifying affiliation to those with a megalomaniac background.

He had reported the fraud of the glass nest: attempting to discourage investors that demanded they go public in a financial Parthenon where the outside floor met the wall. It was all over; the time for escape was now. Artemis simply said “fuck” and cracked her neck from side to side for a last minute showdown with a Siren. The excuses of unfair criticisms when announcing the lack-of-pushback to be a fair indicator of legality wasn’t worth anything when gambling others fortunes as an occupation.

Artemis didn’t have time for evil villain monologues or self-acclimation, so she simply told her young engineer friend to close his eyes. The flames of democracy consumed him from the ground up; working as it should, but being an anomaly in the service of the argument of protecting the already wealthy more than the the customer’s rights. Someone had to be in charge; even when no one wanted to be there...wherever there may be. The pin-pointing of accountability was directed by the hand of fate; guided by the willing compassion for others. Sometimes there was no true and fair justice for those forced to witness self-destruction from afar--there was no way to break past the membranes of selfishness. Artemis scanned the battlefield--instinctively ripping off a couple pieces of her black cloth and shoved them into his ears for protection; wandering off to get proper assistance--to water down the flames of fetish once and for all. Artemis turned aboot face swiftly to conquer the beasts: confident that her kind friend was safe from the Siren, as he stood behind her strapped snugly with a grin--roped to a pole in the background.

Artemis was forever offended that the woman wore a coat that stood for equality of intellect--they were polar opposites when it came to doing the work. For whatever reason: Artemis was busy digging a ditch of studious ambitions and other people were spewing glossy-eyed theories and reinforcing nests with fortunes staked to the Siren named Betsy. The stark and angular woman; stood forever in mirroring company--without a speck of culpability to share between the two...innovating education and sciences with new forms of destruction...whatever that meant. Artemis attempted to take a few steps back: wanting to create space between the frizzy monster and herself. There was no way out. The Siren scooped up a pristine coat to admire from large hanging from a nearby wall; attempting to hang Artemis by the armpits to do so, unable to see the legitimate outline of scholarly glory. Moments of feeling small lasted for eternity, legs flailing--suspended in a moment of utter uselessness. The shrill baritone of a woman bellowing with stormy eyes had brought a scene to pan into the moments where Artemis barely recalled what they had come to do--the purposes of life, so to speak. Artemis didn’t really appreciate people picking her up without consent. It felt silly to be without control--helpless to the physical limits of bodily autonomy, feet dangling in the background.

Artemis grabbed the bird-like woman by her straw hair, coming to grips with reality before Elizabeth on all fronts...minus the husband. She engaged in a memory where a man had held Artemis up by her neck: forced to submit to the superiority of laziness. There was something liberating in enjoying the spoils of outlasted anticipation; to make use of horrific things survived and know the truth was stronger than a life of lies nesting upon one another. Love wasn’t meant to be a rushed delivery of affections, but Artemis was willing to risk betting the hands of time--that her lost husband would be well worth the wait...because it seemed like a harmless thing to wish for. Artemis liked the person in the mirror--able to manage and sort criticisms with sobering reasoning with a few tears here and there, and to be gifted with good company that stuck around the worst of storms or carried her through the less pleasant moments when a deformed spine hindered the day. Artemis awoke in the grips of pale woman in a creepy mask; her lies bolted along its shark chin, oil dripping from its jagged beak. The tactic of fighting a giant woman had failed for lifetimes over, thirty thousand years...to be exact enough. This was an embarrassment and a waste of energy to try and break free--only to stomp accountability into the mind of a shameless individual as a plan; thought Artemis. Instead of wringing her own neck; she allowed the worst to occur, opening Pandora’s box and stumbling upon the battles of fraudulent nests and non-hygienic boxes--laying out the facts as they were: calling a spade; a spade and falling ill to a seizure--struck by the lightening of Zeus as luck would have it...causing the dead weight to wrangle Artemis’s weary body from the grips of a pampered Siren. Artemis left the Siren to tend to her woes; hiding from the loans also owed to a bitch named Betsy in the background.

The fourth dimension of the universe came to be a tragic tale; cemented by legitimacy and occupied space. A box full of wires; of mountain copper and ambition didn’t contend to outlining efforts of one person...one female, attempting to ensure the world didn’t rewrite her history--and then there was Liz, given everything and somehow losing the least. The delegation of accountability falling upon someone; the goat-legged man with sun-less vibes had been the first branch pulled from a rotting tree--a willowy woman holding a nest of fraudulence. Artemis would never have to track him, as proximity to Liz had been his largest accomplishment to date...he could always be found breathing heavily and basking in his luck; favored by the Gods for gaining an experience of falling in love whilst co-conspiring as an occupation.

Artemis tied the bug-eyed woman to her abandoning lover without a second thought--knowing it was recipe for disaster; a satisfying victory in the making--she robbed him of linens for the inconvenience of wasting time arguing about positioning when being held at weapon point. The man fought for his trousers endlessly: ashamed to be naked evidently. Artemis took strategy from his conservatism: repurposing the chord that had once been her noose. Wrestled him to her submission, and tying the enchanted rope around his shriveled and uncircumcised penis--holding steadfast, as it wound tightly around his scrotum. Joining the dick rope, to the neck of the Siren that lay in heap: fast asleep and awaiting good news from the secret lover that held down the nest. Artemis had retracted words of physical violence, growing as a person in the pages of self-reflection. She blindly believed the world would eventually see past the static screen of lies and conflated egos; laying on top of one another in a trouser-less heap. Only time would tell; and Artemis was pretty comfortable reading the fringe one-sided aspects of disliking a complete stranger. It was simplest to let Liz be, to let the people learn the difficult way--what it meant to be a victim in the throws of her infatuated spells--or a target to a scorned lover; calling a majority of the shots in background.

Artemis encircled the rope around the jawline of the Siren: securing a gag deeply within her mouth, and utilizing the ripped material of the magic black cloth holding a mocked neck. She strung them to the tallest bridge, and painted it red for all the times: to signify the blood that had been sacrificed and spilled on behalf of the Siren. Artemis remained annoyed by petty conversations that once referred to the Siren, as a true Helen of Troy. Artemis had thought Athena had been a beauty for the ages, so there wasn’t much to take into consideration when setting such a bar. Artemis believed in justice, and sometimes her looks--but doubted the systems that had failed her repeatedly and the tests of time had set out to prove that history would always repeat itself; the reoccurring fox-like character remained churned out and hot off the press; replicating results in the recent background.

Instead of fighting a Siren: Artemis wandered off to comfort a victim, and to thank him for pumping interests into the dangerous sides of large-branching fraud. It was nice to not be alone in the state of hysteria, wondering what the extent of the hype was for the a woman with an idea and poor execution. The truth had set him free; they had just needed to sit an wait for world to come and collect the mismatched pair. One fell ill to further love-sickness, and the other came down with a mysterious illness that only impacted her memory. Both culpable, neither able to break free from their ties to a red bridge in a foggy-laced background.

There came no relief in stating the world loved Elizabeth, due to the depths of despair it brought with it. The slow burn of the book was due to mandated breaks for dancing; what little pride came from a generation of crushes and deep emotions had given Artemis plenty of chances to find self-assurance with an abundance of dance partners. Maybe this was all a result of Elizabeth not getting her way on a dance floor in adolescent years?...maybe the best anyone could do--was to take examples from the instance of being "suckers and loser"and prepare for the next con. Just in case some random balding male Siren showed up--attempting to raise capital for a transportation loop: over-hyped and forever unfinished--much like Elon’s sexual performance. The tightening of inspiration knotted disparagement kept Artemis forever explaining how two things could be true at once; occurring simultaneously--scrambling to make sense of a dimension comprised of Truman falsities in the background.

The outcome remained the same; with PhD Gibbons gone. The two had done all they could--to avenge the suicide of his fellow engineer, and scientist. The engineer Tyler...was now his own man, thriving to succeed and beating the odds: having gained a firm handshake and welcoming heroic presence engineered for, and by himself. His silver weapons of truth had been armed and ready, tucked away in a front-sided pocket that lay neatly on his chest for safekeeping. The man was a hero to many: known for words of compassion and truth, and a grumpy grandfather proving to be his biggest fan at the end of the day. The engineer was unafraid of the unknown--in times of great uncertainty: surrounded by like minds-procuring a growing army that only wanted to know why--to place accountability somewhere. He had seen the ledge of insanity on a quest to be successful in a deceitful occupation.

The cost of one person failing upwards--had cost the health of dozens of innocent people. Lancets of blood dangled around a famous leader of innovation; their chime keeping all those that had enabled Elizabeth awake in the midnight hours--painting a portrait of greed and avoidable occurrences, to splatter accountability with fortitude. The rapturous rains of blood were inevitable; due to a strange woman’s ability to accessorize her life with pale old men...that’s all that had defined a decades worth of work. An illusion of real time curses had fallen upon the shoulders of a single worried grandson; hanging on to the belief--that his grandfather would proudly lead the charge if told of the betrayal pointedly, and instead: Tyler was forced to prove that courage and traits of outstanding bravery--skipped plenty of generations, but was never lost. Artemis and Tyler were the undeniable proof of that. Their moral-driven might would outmatch any army, as science and the truth had prevailed: to tip hats of madness in their favor--leaving the irrelevant Siren and her lover dangling in the background.

Next Chapter: [ XVIII ] Artemis and the Augean Stables